"The mane thafe!" he exclaimed after the fight was over, and he was
compelled to retreat. "He let me be bate, and wouldn't lift his finger
to help me. I'd like to put a head on him, I would."
Just at that moment Mike felt quite as angry with his friend, Jerry
McGaverty, as with his late opponent.
"The shirt's mine, fair," he said to himself, "and I'll make Jerry give
it to me."
But Jerry had disappeared, and Mike didn't know where to look for him.
In fact, he had entered a dark alleyway, and, taking the shirt from the
paper in which it was wrapped, proceeded to examine his prize.
The unusual size struck him.
"By the powers," he muttered, "it's big enough for me great-grandfather
and all his children. I wouldn't like to pay for the cloth it tuck to
make it. But I'll wear it, anyway."
Jerry was not particular as to an exact fit. His nether garments were
several sizes too large for him, and the shirt would complete his
costume appropriately. He certainly did need a new shirt, for the one
he had on was the only article of the kind he possessed, and was so far
gone that its best days, if it ever had any, appeared to date back to
a remote antiquity. It had been bought cheap in Baxter street, its
previous history being unknown.
Jerry decided to make the change at once. The alley afforded a
convenient place for making the transfer.
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